


Fireworks at Christmas

by starspangledmanwithaplan



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Light Angst, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21693601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starspangledmanwithaplan/pseuds/starspangledmanwithaplan
Summary: Welcome to December, where everyone and their brother is throwing a Christmas party of some kind. Not to be outdone, Tony organizes a gala. It does not go the way you envision. It’s better.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Reader, Clint Barton/You, clint barton/female reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 62





	Fireworks at Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @bitchassbucky Holiday Writing Challenge on Tumblr.

When December rolls around, you know exactly what to expect. Everyone you’ve ever known (and their brother, apparently) is throwing a Christmas party of some kind. Never one to be outdone, Tony organizes a gala. He wants a party that will put all other parties to shame; opulent, excessive, nothing short of _ obscene _. And Tony being Tony, short of actual death, he demands everyone’s attendance. If you are an Avenger or simply work at Shield, you are required to attend. No questions asked, no excuses. And everyone knows, Tony gets what Tony wants. 

The color scheme is _ anything Christmas _ ; crimson, pine, gold, and silver, and every other shade thereof. Black and white _ is _ allowed, which the men take full advantage of. Even Wanda sports a little black dress, one that has Steve drooling. Natasha’s dress is an emerald silk and chiffon, draped over her curves as if Aphrodite herself had painted it on. Bucky is wearing black on black on _ black _ . Delectable, if you say so yourself. Pepper arrives in an ivory number with a slit up to her hip that has Tony shooting daggers at _ anyone _ that dare to look at his wife in anything other than a professional manner. 

Everyone is stunning as they gather in the large room, an extravagantly-decorated tree in the corner, fragrant candles and flowers thick in the air. Champagne toasts are made, people are dancing and laughing and having a splendid time. All except you. 

You are currently hiding in a corner close to the bar, feeling very exposed in the dress you had chosen. It’s red and sparkling, sheer on your shoulders and against your collar bones, the sleeves wide, draping and billowing like a cloak, a _ low _ dip on your back, but it’s not obscene. You’re mostly covered, yet you’ve never felt more vulnerable, naked, especially as Clint strides into the ballroom. He’s _ oozing _ sexuality in his black tuxedo, crisp white shirt, the top buttons undone. His hair is styled, giving off a jazz vibe that goes straight to your _ soul _. 

He finds you as he approaches the bar, emerald eyes glittering in the multitude of candles. His gaze is heavy and hot, a smirk curling his lips as he orders a drink; whiskey, double, neat. Your heart feels like a hummingbird; fluttering and trapped inside your chest, crawling up your throat, desperate to be free. Your skin flushes under his intense gaze, so you try to look away, to look anywhere but the man halfway across the room, swallowing the amber liquid as if he’s parched, but you can’t. 

You raise your glass of wine with a shaking hand and drain it dry, gasping as he sends you a wink. He asks for a refill before disappearing into the mass of people. Even after you can no longer see him, you’re having trouble catching your breath. 

_ Damn that Clint Barton! _

He’s more than a few years older than you, rugged, and devilishly sexy. Without fail, his rough voice sends a wave of desire rolling down your spine. He’s funny and smart, and he’s damn good at his job. You know from personal experience that saving the world, being an Avenger, isn’t an easy task, but Clint makes it look _ good _. 

You have worked with him for the last six years, and every day, you fell a little more in love with him, which is a _ gigantic _ problem because he has never treated you like anything other than a little sister, a friend, a coworker. Until tonight, that is. What changed? Perhaps it is the ambiance; the soft lighting and romantic music drifting through the room. Whatever it is, you are intrigued and extremely confused. Either way, something had shifted between the two of you. You just have to find out _ why _. 

After the bartender refills your glass for the third time, you weave your way through the crowds, searching for Clint. You want to talk to him, but you don’t know what you are going to say, how you are going to broach the subject of _ why the hell _ he had looked at you as if he _ craved _ you. The mere memory of his gaze makes you smile and your belly twist. 

When sweat begins to bead on your forehead and nape of your neck, you duck out of the gala, through a set of doors, and find solace in the brisk air. You cross the terrace, heels clicking on the concrete, and set your glass on the ornately carved railing that comes up to your stomach. Closing your eyes, you tip your head back and pull in a series of long, even breaths. The chilled air stings your nose and throat in an oddly refreshing way, it clears the questions from your mind and cools your overheated skin. 

A voice you definitely had not been expecting makes you jump. “I was wondering where you disappeared to.”

You press a hand to your chest as you whirl around. It’s Clint, and he’s looking at you in such a manner that your toes start to curl. You gasp his name and shake your head. “I… I’m sorry. I just needed… wait, you were looking for me?”

Clint smirks, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a glass. “Why wouldn’t I be looking for my girl?”

You snort in a _ very _ unladylike fashion. “I… I’m not your girl, Clint.” The words are bitter on the back of your tongue. You’ve only ever wanted to be _ his girl _. 

Clint approaches you, an eyebrow arched and a gleam in his eyes. “Who says you’re not my girl?” He’s towering over you, self-confidence radiating off of him. You can _ feel _ his body heat, and you’ve never wanted to press yourself against him as badly as you do right then. 

You’re about to give a smart ass response when fireworks explode in the night sky behind you. You shriek and whirl around once more, heart pounding, your cheeks burning from embarrassment. Clint chuckles, gritty in the back of his throat as he peers up at the sparkling, painted sky. 

“Who says you’re not my girl?” he repeats.

You take a healthy drink of wine before answering. “Everyone.” It comes out a bit harsher than you intended, but it’s the truth. 

Everybody within the Avengers knows that the two of you aren’t together, that you are friends; nothing more. While you could have done something about that, told Clint just _ how much _ you liked him, what would have been the point? He never gave _ any _ indication he liked you like _ that _. And yet -

“Yeah, well, I’m saying it,” he sighs, turning to you. His answer surprises you, and he can see it in your eyes as you look up at him. 

You swallow heavily, loud enough you’re sure he’s heard you over the booming fireworks. “What _ exactly _ are you saying, Clint?”

Clint’s self-confidence slips just a little, but he answers your question without hesitation. “**There are fireworks and we’re a little bit tipsy and I’m trying so hard not to kiss you silly right now**.”

Butterflies explode in your stomach and around your heart. “Is that the only reason you want to kiss me, because we’re a little tipsy?”

His eyes sparkle with red and white as he shakes his head. One of his hands comes up and caresses your cheek before cupping it. “I want to kiss you because I like you, sweetheart. I _ really _ like you.”

You bite down on your bottom lip and nod, fingers trailing along the front of his tuxedo jacket. “I _ really _ like you, too, Clint.” 

There’s a smirk subtly tugging on his lips and then he’s kissing you, a firm press of pillowy flesh and a glide of his tongue on your bottom lip. Your head swims as you open your mouth to him, pushing up to your toes as his tongue curls in your mouth, your hand squeezing the back of his neck, the short hairs poking your skin. His hand is on your back, hot, heavy, and rough, sliding along the low seam of your dress.

Your breathless as you part, heart pounding, a pleasant buzzing in your brain. Clint’s lips are on your forehead and he brushes his nose against yours, long fingers trailing down your neck, along the sheer material on your collar bones. 

“Wow,” he murmurs, and you chuckle, looking up at him with lust-blown pupils. 

You agree with him, voice low, seductive. “Took you long enough.” 

Clint laughs and kisses your forehead once more. “Give an old guy a break.”

“You’re not _ that _ old,” you huff, slapping his chest lightly.

“Older than you.” A finger curls under your chin, and he traps it there with his thumb. “I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

“We’ll just have to make up for lost time then, won’t we?” you say rather boldly, a dark glimmer in your eyes. You grab the collar of his jacket and pull him down for another searing kiss.


End file.
